


An Understanding

by hjonesy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Drabble, I'm Not Ashamed, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6347287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjonesy/pseuds/hjonesy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Son<br/>An endearment used only in private, The term, as paternal as it may be, lines lax sentences and stashed letters. He hates it in the beginning; feels the bile rise while cheeks are warm with heat because who does he think he is?</p><p>Or in other words: Hamilton discusses the Generals favorite term of endearment with him---or he tries anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> I gotta admit I love the idea of good ole George calling Hamilton "Son" in private. And I love the idea of Hamilton being thick headed enough to just not get it for a while. Comments and suggestions are always welcome. Find me on [Tumblr!](http://alexander-slammington.tumblr.com/)

**_Son_ **

An endearment used only in private, The term, as paternal as it may be, lines lax sentences and stashed letters. He hates it in the beginning; feels the bile rise while cheeks are warm with heat because _who does he think he is?_ The General is no father to him; does the man think to adopt him, to care for him as though he is some feral cat left to beg for food and shelter? And it takes some time, months due to the thickness of Alexander's skull, to recognize, and understand the other connotation of which the General frequently uses the term, **son.**

The topic is broached while he and the General pour over the days correspondences. Heavy hand, fingers thick and the darkened skin about knuckles cracked from the weeks cold, falls upon his own shoulder--- and there is that phrase, that term of endearment. “Well done, _son_.” Throat constricts while he attempts to swallow, tongue swiping at dry lips while, per usual, mind races. _Never has he been so informal with the others as far as I can tell---is there a reason for his kindness, does he think me in need of a hand out but worries he might offend? Does he intend to mentor me, is he not already mentoring me---?_

And then: “Hamilton, son. What plagues you?” Hues flicker high, so high, and for the moment words are lost. Leave it to the General to know, to sense his unease _Ah, so be it._

“May I be frank, sir?” And he turns to face the General more, who gives only a confounded look, brief as it may be.

“But of course-” and before the man can even tack the verbal period to the end of his sentence Hamilton is talking.

“I am not your son. And I would prefer if you refrained from calling me such. I care not to know your motives for the endearment, but I find it degrading if your intentions are to only provide for someone whom you assume needs a hand out---”

“You think my kindness a hand out?”

“I only assumed--”

“As you do often.” The General's words hold a sense of finality, as though he intends to leave the conversation at that .In truth that is the end of it; Washington has let his intentions be known--- _right?_ But of course, Hamilton will not have it. He rises, though he is no more intimidating than before while the other stands near two heads taller. They are close, the point of Hamilton's boot separated from the others by mere inches yet he feels no sense of unease. If anything the Generals close proximity seems to quell rising anxieties. _How odd._

“Sir---” and the first sentence of what was to be many is lost when heavy hand is placed upon his hip. Head instinctively cranes back while eyes, acute and calculative, scan his General’s face for any sense of emotion. Hamilton is given only a steel wall while left hand now comes down to grip opposite hip.

“You were saying, son.”

He swallows: “I---do not follow, sir.” Truly he does not. If the General sees him not as a child, and not as an orphan in need of handouts, then what---?

**_OH_ **

And he catches it, the curl of Washington’s lips while towering frame leans towards him. “Then perhaps it is time you retire to your quarters. It is late---” just like that the General is moving him to the side, as though he intended to do so all along, hands leaving Hamilton’s frame while they busy themselves with collecting the days correspondences. He is left slack jawed, and silenced, a rarity if you knew Alexander Hamilton. Mind still races of course, brain trudging to catch up with the exchange, to analyze it, to understand it.

“Yes, sir.” And feet shuffle while he rushes to make an escape, the crisp winter air cutting into the skin of warm cheeks while Hamilton bee-lines for his quarters. The conversation is never broached again, never touched, for **now** Alexander understands.


End file.
